WE quitted Worcester by the mid day train, and it was now eight o'clock. Only the governesses were expected to return to Madame Moret's establishment that evening, in order to be ready to take charge of the pupils on their arrival from various quarters on the following morning.
“Well, ma chere, how have you enjoyed your holidays?" inquired Mademoiselle Dulan of a young pupil-teacher, who was seated not far from her side in the apartment we had entered.
“I don't know, Mademoiselle; they have gone so quickly, that I have not had much time to think of them," was the rejoinder.
“But what have you been doing with them, ma chere?" persisted Mademoiselle, who was curious to know about everybody's holiday pleasures.
“I’ve been to Aunt Marty's, part of the time, if you really care to know," replied the young girl. “I enjoyed that very much."
“How could you, ma chere? I have heard you say she is old and devotes all her time to visiting sick people."
“That is what I liked so much. I now think differently about those things from what I once did, Mademoiselle. I find pleasure in them now," said the girl with a grateful look towards Kate, who had taken a piece of embroidery in her hand, and was listening to the conversation.
“Bah! Do you call that pleasure?" asked the French governess, with a look of half-pity, half-contempt. Adeline Montague-for that was the name of the speaker-blushed, as she noticed that Mademoiselle's dark eyes were fixed upon her, evidently waiting an answer.
“I have learned, during the last few months, to see that pleasure is not what I once thought it was," she said in a low, distinct tone.
“Ah, ma chere," said Mademoiselle, with a kind of patronizing air which made Adeline feel a little uncomfortable, "you are very young; your mind and powers of feeling are not as yet sufficiently developed!"
I know it, Mademoiselle. I am little more than a child; but I have learned a little of the pleasures which the world cannot give," answered Adeline Montague quickly.
"The world! Bah! Much you know about the world, ma petite," said Mademoiselle, with another look of contempt.
“What have you found in the world to give you pleasure, Mademoiselle?" asked my young mistress, drawing a little closer to the table and joining in the conversation.
“It’s all pleasure, Mademoiselle Grahame. The concert, the dance, the opera. Ah! I have enjoyed my holidays!" added Mademoiselle Dulan, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders.
“But it has been a very different pleasure from mine," suggested Adeline Montague.
“It need be!" said Mademoiselle, who was as much at home in the English language as in her own.
“And Mademoiselle," said Kate, as the servant entered with the tray bearing supper, "ours is a joy that no one can take away from us! You have to come, away from all your pleasures when your duties commence; but we can bring with us the One who has taught us what true pleasure really is."
“Well, Mademoiselle, I suppose it will be as it was last term; you will draw Adeline into your narrow-minded views upon various subjects, and Fräulein and I must be companions. So we must do what you English call agree to differ.'"
The conversation had lasted only a few moments; but it was sufficient to show that Kate's path was not a smooth one. The school was not large; it consisted of about thirty pupils in all, about half the number day-scholars, half boarders. The principal was a French lady of good birth and lady-like deportment. Possessed of great powers of mind herself, her chief aim was to cultivate and enlarge the understandings of those who were placed beneath her care. Able, proficient teachers aided her in her task of imparting instruction in arts, science, music, painting, &c. That higher culture of the heart and spirit was, however, ignored.
Had Madame Moret always been as careful in moral training as in mental, she would have ascertained more clearly the kind of subjects likely to be conversed upon by her teachers, and the effects likely to be produced by the same.
She little expected that more than one member of that youthful band would look back from a remorseful death-bed-back over a life of gaiety, self-indulgence and ungodliness, that had had its commencement in hours of flippant conversations on subjects such as those in which Mademoiselle Dulan delighted. A favorite with all the girls, on account of her vivacious manner and story-telling capacities, no small amount of mischief might such a person as Mademoiselle Dulan accomplish.
Kate's conscientious discharge of duty won Madame Moret's approbation, and by this time she regarded her English teacher with more affection than she had ever before permitted herself to feel towards any stranger. Cold and hard as Madame's nature was, yet the other teachers soon saw that my young mistress was regarded with more favor than themselves.
“Dear Miss Grahame," said Adeline Montague, as she stole softly into Kate's chamber, and found her with traces of tears upon her countenance, "how is it that the Lord lets His children suffer?" Just a short time before, Kate was the subject of an undeserved and spiteful attack on the part of Mademoiselle and Fraulein.
“It is good for them, dear, or it wouldn't be allowed," answered Kate gently. "The Lord has a purpose of love in all His dealings with us. I am learning it, Addie."
“Isn’t there a verse somewhere, Miss Grahame, which says, 'Blessed are ye when men shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for my sake'?”
“Yes, dear," answered Kate. “What made me so sorry just now was because my life was so little testimony. You were present when Mademoiselle said what she did!
"Yes, I heard it. I was standing thinking how I longed to be more like you, when she said that," answered Adeline.
“Not like me, dear Addie," said Kate, as she prepared to descend to her afternoon's duties. “More like the Lord, isn't it?”
“Yes, dear Miss Grahame; I meant that," said Adeline Montague. “If you only knew how much you have helped me since I came here. I came dissatisfied with myself, and with everybody else; but you led me to Jesus, and I love you and thank you for doing it. I do want to grow more like Him," she added. Oh! grateful words at such a moment! Kate was thankful that all her labors were not in vain, and went down to her duties with deep peace in her heart that nothing could disturb.
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Maude and Carrie wrote often, telling Kate of all that could interest her. Very seldom was there a line from Mrs. Grahame now; her last letter was dated about three weeks back. Only a few, feeble lines, thanking Kate for some grapes she had sent; but the conclusion! How could Kate keep the tears back as she read, "Good-bye once more, my precious child. Your loving and grateful mother, Emily Grahame"?
Was not Kate more than repaid for any little act of self-denial she must needs have made to do what she did for the home circle? No good news; however, of returning strength did these anxiously looked-for letters contain. No! though very little was said about the terrible dread which was upon them, they knew it now. Very evident it was, even to the children's eyes, that their mother was sinking fast.
"Come home, dear Kate," wrote Sydney about this time. “If anything will make mother better, it will be seeing your dear face again;" and at the bottom of the note, in her father's bold handwriting, was a postscript: "Sydney is right, Kate; come if you can." Kate, who had lately got into the habit of showing Madame Moret the children's letters, showed her this one also.
"You shall go, my dear," said Madame Moret, as she replaced the letter in her hand. “Oh, Madame! how good of you!" was all that my young mistress could articulate.
“And you needn't be anxious about your duties," she continued, as she drew Kate to her and kissed her, much to Kate's astonishment. "I can arrange all that. I shall give you a fortnight."
“A fortnight! Oh, Madame, if I am spared to return, how shall I skew you the gratitude I feel?" asked Kate, in a half bewildered tone.
“I will tell you how some day, dear," replied Madame, in a tone of unusual gentleness. “But you go and pack up the few things you need for your journey. Such a mother as yours must have been," added Madame, “must need her daughter now.
“Kate," said Madame, a short time after, as she entered her private room to say good-bye, "if you want anything-money or anything else-send to me." Who shall tell the warm rush of gratitude that welled up in Kate's soul? “Kate," too! Never had Madame, whom everybody thought so cold, so distant, spoken in this way before. “Write very soon and tell me all you can, dear," added Madame Moret; and again, for a moment, her lips had rested upon Kate's brow. Is it not sometimes so? Hearts we deemed capable of no real affection are wakened into life and sympathy by the touch of some unconscious hand.
“Mother, do you know me?" said Kate, as late in the evening she took her place by her mother's bedside. Mrs. Grahame had not risen for some days, and at times, during the afternoon hours of the day of Kate's arrival, her mind had wandered. The invalid opened her eyes and looked anxiously, eagerly around, as if to assure herself she had not been deceived by the voice.
“Sweet mother," murmured Kate, in a low, unsteady tone, as she stooped and kissed the long, transparent fingers lying so motionless on the coverlet.
“My Kate!" was all the mother's response; but those two words were a world of welcome, a world of satisfaction to that longing heart. “I asked for you, darling," said Mrs. Grahame later in the evening.
“Asked the Lord, mother?” inquired Kate.
“Yes, dear; I would not let them send for you, it could do no good; but I asked Him to send for you when He saw fit. You won't leave me again, darling?"
“Never, mother," was the fervent answer.
“Did Madame mind you coming, love?"
“She sent me, dear mother;" and Kate repeated what had taken place before her departure.
“How great are all His mercies, Kate! I long to see Him and praise Him for what He has done for me."
“It will not be long, mother," said Kate in a voice that showed she was doing her utmost to control herself.
“No, darling; not long," repeated the mother, as she lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes. A few moments' more silence, and then she spoke again. “Kate," she said, "I have found that the way was all right; all right. I loved the Lord before; but I never rightly knew till lately how much He loved me."
Aunt Mary now entered. She had been sent for about a week before this period. And very good it was to have her in that sick-room. Kate found it so before the week had expired.
“I must have you go and lie down, my child," said she, in a firm, gentle voice, as she took Kate's hand, and gently drew it away from her mother's.
“Don’t send me away, aunt, please," pleaded Kate.
“I will stay with my sister to-night, dear," said the firm, kind voice. "You are tired after your long journey; rest now, and to-morrow, if all is well, you shall be nurse during the day."